


What you can’t see can’t hurt you

by black_box_boy



Series: the Holmes-Lestrade Boys [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Mentioned John Watson, Mentioned Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Post-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:21:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29494977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/black_box_boy/pseuds/black_box_boy
Summary: The world is so big and so terrible and the weight of it all is on mycroft’s shoulders.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: the Holmes-Lestrade Boys [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2156712
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	What you can’t see can’t hurt you

**Author's Note:**

> !! Read with caution !! Content warning for mentions of panic attacks, war, death, destruction, and g*ns. All mentions are brief and not super descriptive but I figured I should still warn. 
> 
> I’m absolutely out here self-projecting onto mycroft. 
> 
> We haven’t had power for a couple hours and I’m bored but I can’t move on to another fic until I post this one so here we are. This is unedited and possibly out of order so if it’s hard to read let me know and I’ll fit it !

Just because mycroft had been working as The British Government for more years than he can count doesn’t mean he’s used to all the horrifying things he sees every day. He’s still haunted by the horrid death and destruction following a war, the bodies of innocent bystanders in the street, because when has war ever been fair. He was haunted by the screams and begs of people desperate to get out of horrible situations in their home countries; mothers and young men and old women and children all crying out for someone to hear them. And of course, he is haunted by the the spit second of pure terror he felt with the barrels of secret servicemen’s guns pointed at Sherlock, ready to pull the trigger and kill his little brother. 

He bought the cottage specifically for its distance from the rest of the world. There were no desperate hands reaching out to him. No bodies laying under the remains of collapsed buildings. No world class marksmen to hurt the people he loves.  
But some days even the space between him and work was too close. Sometimes the world was so suffocating. Everything, the state of the entire world depended on his every command and it was absolutely exhausting. Sometimes all he wanted to do was turn off all the lights, lock the door, and press his back against the farthest corner of his study. The world was so big and so terrible, and the weight of all of it was on mycroft shoulders. 

There was something so comforting about pressing his back against a wall. It was cold and smooth, and he had a view of the whole room, which meant nothing could surprise him. Surprises were one of the things that mycroft hated the most. Small romantic gestures he adored, a small object or a kind act made the ice man’s heart melt. But surprises, real surprises, full of loud noises and unexpected visitors, stressed mycroft out. He much preferred when things went exactly according to plan, when he could anticipate what would happen next. His job, of course, rarely followed a carefully calculated plan. Every day was spontaneous and unexpected and so difficult to recover from. Having this space, this dark and quiet corner of his office, where he could have complete control made the world feel less unpredictable, and in turn more manageable for Mycroft Holmes. 

strangely, there were days when myc felt he wasnt close enough to the rest of the world. There were often emergencies that called him back to london at the early hours of the morning. work related emergencies that had him hurriedly dressing into his usual 3 piece suit, or familial emergencies that had him in just a button up and vest while comforting his upset little brother or his best friend of a flatmate. myc could always feel the exhaustion pulling at his conciousnes on the way there, making him regret rising up the ranks to become The British Government if it meant having to be awake at such an ungodly hour.  
And of course the drive home was always excruciatingly long. every day, no matter the severity of the things hed seen, mycroft just wanted to colapse into his husbands arms, but doing so was difficult when he was stuck in a car for half an hour after work, longing for a glass of wine and a fond "welcome home love"

~

It was not usual for Greg lestrade to come home to a dark and quiet household. Most days he was the first one off the clock, leaving it up to him to unlock doors and turn on lights and fill the house with laughter and music. But the house was diferent. Myc's umbrella was in its holder next to the door, where it sat until night at which time it took its protective stance near the bedside, should the occasion arise for its use in the middle of the night. his suit jacket was draped over the back of an arm chair and his phone was dropped nearby. Mycroft rarely had his phone away from his body, much less dropped so far away. Something was wrong. 

Greg walked all throughout the house, looking for his husband. The bedroom was empty, the kitchen completely dark, and the guest rooms void of life. That leaves only one place: the study.  
~  
The study was custom built to be a place for mycroft to work from home. Though it looked very different from mycroft’s usual office, this one fitted with comfortable furniture and a few sentimental objects, it was still a place of business. It had all the the most important files and internet access he needed, perfectly fitted to all of myc’s needs and kept under lock and key from any possible unwelcome visitors. However, on occasion the doors would be unlocked and someone would enter, looking not for important government information, but rather refuge from the outside world. It was the perfect place to escape from reality. It was soundproof and dark and comforting, and so each inhabitant of the house had their own way of using the room. 

there were four people in the entire world who held the key to mycroft's study. Himself, of course, his husband, sherlock, and john. the boys were over at least once a week, so they had their own keys to the house should they need to get in when neither owner was home. But it was only recently that they were awarded a sacred key to myc's study. The security of the room was something each key owner took advantage of, and each had their own place that made them feel safe. for greg it was the arm chair in the left corner, for john it was high backed leather chair behind the desk, for sherlock it was pressed against the door, and for mycroft it was the farthest possible corner

They used the study, more often than for work, for an escape. When a case triggered a bad memory, John would hide and spend some time writing to shake the memory. When Greg saw one too many dead bodies and grieving families, or he failed to catch a criminal, he could let out his frustration with the world and all the awful people in it. When Sherlock spent too long neglecting his needs for a case or the cravings to relapse were a little too much to handle, he could rest inside the study’s walls until the terrible feelings passed. 

~ 

When greg unlocked the study door, he found mycroft in his spot in the corner. His back pressed against the wall, hands clenching and unclenching as if searching for something, and eyes closed tightly. he closed the study door behind him, making sure to make his presence known without being too disturbing. 

Greg never asked about work. There were too many terrible stories, too many hard days, too many haunting memories. Unless myc brought up the issue first, they would exchange a simple kiss when mycroft came home, looking exhausted, and ignore the topic entirely. 

It was safer to never talk about work. Greg came to find, early on in their relationship, that comparing stories or fighting over who had the worse day always ended with Mycroft ‘winning’. Though it wasn’t a cheerful and victorious win, it was a win made up of blurting out stories or sharing too much information on a particularly terrible thing myc had seen. It was a win of apologies and fleeting touches and warm comforting cups of tea.

He didn’t touch myc, that was the last thing he needed right now. He just sat on the floor quietly and rested his head against the nearby armchair. There would be time for touching and talking later, right now mycroft just needed his presence to let him know that the world was big and terrible, but not inside this house.


End file.
